A few feet away, a woman in a diamond-studded dress gets helped onto a stretcher. I’m pretty sure she’s the director of the movie. She’s crying, her makeup running down her cheeks.
Is this all I do? Hurt people?
A hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Stop it,” Kenta snaps. I look up at him. His face is hard. “Stop beating yourself up and focus. You’re not helping anyone like this.”
I nod. He’s right. There’s no time to reflect right now. We have to act.
“Carter.” I turn and see Anfisa waving us over. There’s a whole group of FBI agents here. They’ve set up a quasi-booth on one of the agents’ cars, balancing laptops and equipment on the car boot. “We’ve got CCTV footage,” she says as we approach, stepping back so we can see the laptops. Each screen is split into quarters, showing camera footage the agents are scrolling through. I stoop down to watch over the screens.
Glen, who’s been talking with a member of the bomb squad, comes to join us. “Looked like a mixture of flashbangs and pipe bombs. The pipes were definitely homemade.”
“Any deaths?” Kenta asks.
He shakes his head. “None so far. A couple broken bones, a few injuries from shrapnel, but nothing too severe. Paramedics can’t reach everyone yet, though. They’re only treating people at the edges of the blast zone.”
I tune them out, focussing on the CCTV tapes. So far, I haven’t seen anything useful. Just the odd worker walking around behind the scenes, holding camera equipment or trays of drinks. I zero in on one screen, watching as the explosion starts and a waitress drops her tray, falling to her knees and covering her ears.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” a man says politely. I glance across. Paramedic. He smiles at me. “Were you caught in the bombing?”
“Obviously,” I mutter, scrolling through the cameras. I didn’t just roll around in the shrapnel for fun.
“Well, then, if you’d allow me to examine—”
“I’m fine.”
“You mayfeelfine, sir, but bombs like this can cause internal bleeding from the wave of pressure they emit, rather than the physical—”
“I know how a bloody bomb works,” I snap, “I’ve thrown plenty of them.”
The paramedic looks vaguely concerned.
“We’re former SAS soldiers,” Kenta explains quickly. “We’re currently working, so we really don’t have much time.”
“Th-thank you for your service,” the guy stutters. Anfisa snorts. I ignore them all, leaning in closer to study the footage.There’s a flash of red in one of the cameras, and I stab the space bar, pausing the recording. “This one. Camera six.” I check the tag. “Employee entrance B.”
“I’ll go check it out,” a policeman says, jogging away. I expand the video and watch, my stomach twisting, as a man in a dark grey hoodie strolls to a blue car, carrying a limp blonde woman in his arms.The area is dark, lit by a single streetlamp, but as he turns to check behind him, his face is perfectly illuminated.
It’s him. No doubt about it. Daniel Filch. He looks exactly like his photo; weak-jawed and puffy, his small eyes pale and beady behind his wire-frame glasses.
My throat tightens as he turns back around and opens the car door. Briar comes into view. Her body is as lifeless as a doll’s, and her hair is falling over her face in wild curls. I close my eyes. “Check the license plate,” I mutter.
Kenta’s already tapping at his phone. “It’s a rental. Blue Lotus Car Dispensary.”
“Get them on the phone. Check if they have lojack or GPS tracking.”
“On it.” He puts his phone to his ear and walks away from us.
I keep watching the video. X caresses Briar’s cheeks as he pulls out a rag and ties it around her mouth, then zip-ties her wrists. Fear rolls through me as he reaches into his pocket, pulling something out. The sharp edge of a knife flashes under the streetlamp.
Wetness on me. Wetness down my back. A knife, shining under the light.Kenta’s eyes are terrified.
“Just give us the information. Nothing needs to happen to your friends.”
“Matt.”
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say them. I know I can’t say them.
“Matt. Look at me.”
